


Learning To Fly

by Trojie



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns, Chronicles of Narnia
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Biggles has been shunted into shepherding some of the Air Training Corps; Peter Pevensie's just doing his bit for the country. Biggles can't help watching the kid, even though he knows it's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning To Fly

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Capt. W.E. Johns and C.S. Lewis are both about as rotary as the engine in a Camel by now: Biggles belongs to Johns; Peter Pevensie to Lewis; Sopwith Camels, Supermarine Spitfires, Hawker Hurricanes and the fabulous de Havilland Mosquito belong to their respective developers and to the Royal Flying Corps/Royal Air Force, I presume. Not to me, sadly. I wish they did. Quotes from 'The White Fokker' and 'J-9982' by Capt. W.E. Johns used completely without permission.
> 
> Originally intended to be a lot sillier and shorter than it turned out, and amazingly for me contains neither the present tense, nor Edmund Pevensie, nor ridiculous amounts of introspection. _Does_ contain my trademark disjointed sentences, however, and gratuitously large amounts of vintage aircraft.
> 
> Those of a musical persuasion ought to listen to 'Learning to Fly' by Pink Floyd while reading this. Might make more sense, if a Biggles/Narnia crossover slashfic can ever make sense.
> 
> Beta-read by the simply spiffing Bridget.

Peter's eyes were supposed to be facing front. He was standing to attention in the second rank, legs itching in the woollen uniform trousers, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the aircraft on the field - three Hawker Hurricanes, a de Havilland Mosquito, and oh, by the Mane of Aslan - two Mark IX Spitfires as well. Beautiful, all of them. Just beautiful. And he couldn't keep the excitement from his expression at the sight of them. He craned his head further, and caught sight of something behind the Mosquito ... some kind of ... biplane?

'Pevensie!' someone barked.

Peter's eyes snapped to the front. 'Sir!'

'Are you paying attention, Pevensie?'

'Yessir!'

'Really? Because it doesn't LOOK like you're paying attention, Pevensie...'

Commanding Officer James Bigglesworth eyed the new recruits. One of them was already getting a tongue-lashing from their sergeant - a blond kid, in his late teens by the looks of him. The CO smiled as he noticed what the boy had been admiring; the Spitfires. And fair enough too, though the icing on the cake for him was the Camel he'd found in the hangar, waiting for disassembly. He couldn't bear to leave the old girl sitting in the dark, so he'd had the ack-emmas bring her out as well for this little display. There had to be some kind of perks to this job, after all. He wasn't impressed with this posting, but Air Commodore Raymond wanted him out of the action for a while.

'A rest, old chap,' he'd called it, trying to be jovial. Biggles was well aware that the Commodore thought he was suffering from shell-shock. But argument had done no good, and so he was here, at the flight school, training up promising young things on National Service.

Looking at all their bright shining faces, and the shamefaced blond boy being given a severe dressing down, Biggles had to suppress a sigh. It was going to be a long year.

Later that week, he realised just how long a year. Biggles was in the rear seat of a converted two-seater Spitfire, and itching to take the controls before they'd even taken off. The trainee in the pilot's seat was the kid he'd seen that first day, the one gawping at the very Spitfire they were sitting in now. Biggles had developed a grudging fondness for the reckless teenager - Pevensie just wanted to fly. Unfortunately he wanted to run before he could walk, to use the cliché, and having survived two world wars, Biggles was hoping not to end his aviation career upside down in the rear seat of an ex-service Spitfire. The squadron of trainees had had some experience in light aircraft before being posted here, so they weren't completely incompetent, but these older fighters still had a few tricks to them. Tricks Biggles was hoping the boys wouldn't find out.

'Contact!'

The propeller started to purr, and the Merlin engine to rumble into life.

Biggles couldn't see Pevensie's face, but he was willing to bet the boy was grinning, like he'd grinned every time he'd been within ten yards of an aircraft so far. Cocky little swine.

'Ease her forward!' Biggles shouted over the noise of the engine. 'Gently!' he added as they lurched forward. They sped up, heading for the end of the runway.

'You'll feel her start to hop-' Biggles shut up. The 'plane was lifting as smoothly as he could have hoped for. 'Alright, just a circle and then we'll land, alright?'  
There was no answer. The lunatic was probably still grinning. But they circled smoothly and cleanly, and lined up for the approach back to land, when Pevensie suddenly said something.

'Once more?' There was a wistful note to his voice.

Biggles laughed, abruptly, oddly reminded of himself when he was that age. Keen. 'No, lad, take her down.'

There was a suggestion in the atmosphere that the grin had ceased.

The next time he had Pevensie for a lesson, they were flying the Mosquito. Biggles was pleased; the Mosquito was probably one of his favourite aircraft on the field for this sort of malarkey; for a start, it hadn't had to be modified to accommodate an extra seat, and he could sit alongside his students and watch their actions better than in any of the originally single-seater 'planes. He settled into the navigator's seat and looked over at Pevensie, who was busily fastening his flying jacket and strapping himself in.

'Nervous, Pevensie?'

'No, sir.'

Biggles regarded the boy for a moment. There was no bravado there, just ... confidence. Pevenise was completely at his ease. 'You really aren't, are you? You like flying?'

'Yessir.'

He was bloody well grinning again, and this time he taxied down the runway even more confidently. Cocky, Biggles thought again. Definitely.

They were circling the airfield when the boy suddenly asked, 'Will I be ready for a solo flight soon? Sir?'

Biggles looked over at the confident pair of hands operating the Mosquito, and privately thought that the kid could have handled almost anything on the aerodrome a week ago. Flown. Yes. He meant flown, not handled, because he wasn't thinking of the kid's confidence in terms of anything but aircraft.

He derailed _that_ train of thought as fast as possible, and instead of answering Pevensie's question, he said, 'Roll her.' _Let's see what he can manage,_ he thought, privately.

'Sir?'

'Roll her. Full aileron to starboard.'

Pevensie shrugged and did so. The Mosquito rolled effortlessly in the sky, as Biggles had expected. The kid was just so ... yes. Cocky. He looked across again, and caught sight of the grin. He was starting to get worried about that grin, and about seeing it wiped out permanently. He knew the saying about old pilots and bold pilots as well as anyone else, and the thought of seeing Pevensie (_of seeing any of his trainees,_ he added hurriedly) in a wreck was painful. Biggles'd seen a lot of good men go West. Good _keen_ men ...

_'I've lost Swayne and Maddison. I've lost Swayne and Maddison; can't you hear me? What are you looking at me like that for?'_

***

The unmistakeable sound of a rotary Bentley engine roared out across the aerodrome. Biggles was making his way from the mess to his office when he heard it. He swore, did an abrupt about-turn and took off across the grass back towards the hangar, where the Camel was taxiing off. He waved his arms frantically, roaring dire imprecations at the pilot. Fortunately, the pilot in question saw him and eased the throttle back. Biggles jogged down the runway until he caught up with the 'plane.

'You arrogant pup!' Biggles said angrily as Pevensie hopped down out of the cockpit. 'When I said you were cleared for a solo flight, I didn't mean in this!'

'Sorry sir!' barked Pevensie, not making eye contact. The little fool seemed entirely unable to leave the Camel alone. It was at the aerodrome ostensibly for storage and then disassembly, but Biggles hadn't been able to shut it away entirely, and it had attracted a fair bit of attention from the trainee corps. Particularly young Pevensie, who seemed enraptured with the thing, and completely oblivious to the fact that it was dangerous.

He was grinning, and trying to hide it. Biggles had to resist the urge to slap him. Or grab him and physically manhandle him away from the aircraft.

Biggles forcibly suppressed the thought that physically manhandling Pevensie would be rather agreeable, though he definitely agreed with it. The kid filled out his uniform in all the right places, after all. It wasn't done for a CO to _look_, but Pevensie always seemed to be _around_, either carrying out some errand or hanging around the 'planes, scrambling in and out of his flying jacket, dangling from some part of an aircraft handing an ack-emma a spanner, his carefully tucked-in shirt riding up and displaying just the tiniest hint of skin ...

When Biggles walked into the mess a few hours later, it was to find Pevensie at the centre of a knot of other trainees, saying, to general agreement, 'You know what they said about the Camel, that it gets you either a wooden cross, the Red Cross or a Victoria Cross-'

He couldn't help interjecting. 'And in your case, Pevensie, I'd be surprised if it was either of the latter. Camels kill novices.' The boys leapt to their feet to salute him. He waved them away, his attention on Pevensie.

The boy'd saluted, but didn't drop his eyes, saying, 'They killed plenty of Huns too, though, sir.'

'I'm not disputing that, kid. But that crate'll kill you, I swear. Camels have killed better men than you.'

'Sir-'

'Don't push me, Pevensie. You want to fly solo, you stick to the Spitfires or the Hurricanes. That Camel's not for you lot. It's due to be dismantled at the end of the week, anyway.'

Later on, Biggles would look back at that moment and realise that that was possibly the stupidest thing he could have said if he wanted the boy to stay out of the 'plane.

***

It was curiously quiet on the aerodrome. Biggles noticed this at about five in the afternoon, when he had been doing paperwork for some time. He put his pen down, puzzled. He was sure that earlier, the place had been filled with the hubbub of trainees and mechanics and pilots and so on and so forth, going about their business loudly enough to make him curse, and jam the window shut with his greatcoat, and exasperatedly light a cigarette in order to soothe his nerves as he went over fuel usage figures and all the other mindless, soulless bureaucracy that went along with command.

Now, though: silence.

He stubbed out the cigarette and went outside, and noticed almost immediately that everyone on the airfield was looking worried, and gazing East. The sun was setting behind them, and a gentle violet light suffused the sky.

Then he heard it.

And he swore.

There were few noises in the world, in Biggles' possibly biased opinion, to compare with a sweet-running Bentley engine. It was a sound he'd come to know and to love and to hope desperately for every time he saw a black speck on the horizon, because it meant a friend was coming home, and would probably live. It was also a sound he hadn't heard in quite some time. It brought back memories.

The noise he heard now, as the black speck approached, was not a sweet-running Bentley engine. It was a Bentley engine fighting for its life. It was a sound that brought back even more memories, most of them ones that he'd tried, very hard, with the aid of quite a number of stiff drinks, to forget.

_'Where's Hall, Mahoney?'_

_'About somewhere - won't be long, I expect - he went fooling off on his own after I'd washed out.'_

_'Towards Berniet?'_

_'Yes - why?'_

_'You can pack his kit - he won't be coming back.'_

Biggles ran his eye over the airstrip and the open doors of the hangar, though he already knew which one was missing - Spitfire, Mosquito, Spitfire, Hurricane, Hurricane, Hurricane ... no Camel.

'Shit,' Biggles spat. He then proceeded to run his eye over the assembled trainee flight corps and mechanics, hoping for a surprise. Nope. Absent very much without leave; trainee pilot Peter Pevensie, who, if he got his arse back on the ground in one piece, was due for the biggest fizzer since ... something. Biggles gave up on trying to find a simile as the Camel approached the landing strip, stuttering and gurgling. He was too angry for similes. Similes could wait until he'd laid hands on Pevensie, for endangering himself, for endangering the _'plane_, for disobedience ...

The engine cut. Biggles' hand were clenched into fists so tight his thumbs were going numb. He couldn't see Pevensie's expression behind his goggles, but there was no hint of hesitation as the aircraft glided the last few yards and landed, violently and bumpily, but in one piece. The propeller slowly stopped turning. Biggles, ignoring Pevensie (who was busily climbing out of the cockpit), walked slowly around the 'plane, looking for damage. She looked all right; the engine noise was probably a fuel-mix problem. Aware of someone standing behind him, the CO turned, to find Pevensie, stiffly at attention, helmet and goggles in hand.

'You didn't mix the fuel right,' said Biggles mildly. The fingernails still biting into the palms of his hands belied his manner.

Pevensie's eyes met Biggles'. 'Sir.'

'And you forgot about the balance with a full tank, didn't you?' Biggles remembered his first flight in a Camel, years ago.

'Sir.'

It was dark, now. Behind them, the ground crew were manhandling the Camel into the hangar, but the rest of the squadron were all still watching them.

'You lot,' Biggles said. 'Go and get your dinner. Dismissed. And _you_,' he said ominously to Pevensie, 'come with me.' He strode into the hangar, waving the last of the mechanics towards the mess as well. God, he wanted a cigarette.

When they were alone, he leant against the fuselage of the Camel and waited for Pevensie to say something. He could see the boy's hair shine dully under the watery lamps, and the expression on his face suggested he was itching to ask a couple of pertinent questions. However, military discipline was preventing him from doing so; strangely, for someone who seemed to be the type to buck every order going, Pevensie was firmly wedded to at least the appearance of obedience. Like some back-woods sergeant finally presented with an officer - used to doing things his own way, but not able to let go of the command structure.

'You're wondering why I didn't bawl you out in front of the rest,' Biggles said eventually. Pevensie nodded stiffly, legs braced, hands behind his back (and still holding both goggles and helmet) 'I'll tell you. It's because despite the fact that you're an insubordinate, arrogant, smart-arsed, over-confident puppy-dog, you're a good pilot, and I don't want the rest of the boys to hear what I'm about to say and get the idea that just because you've got balls I'm not furious with you. I am. You could have killed yourself. You could have wrecked a 'plane. Alright, a 'plane due to be dismantled, but a 'plane that I particularly am fond of, and would be displeased, to put it mildly, to find in tiny little bits over some farmer's meadow. You took it without my permission, and when you'd been specifically ordered to stay out of it. This isn't a toy. This is a flying coffin for the likes of you.'

Pevensie opened his mouth to speak, and Biggles shook his head. 'I know why you did it. Christ, I might have done it myself, in your position. If someone'd pointed me at something like that and essentially said it was the last chance I'd have to fly it ...'

'Sir, I-'

'You're sorry. I know. Fine. Go and get some food.' Biggles waved a dismissive hand at the boy, resting the other on the Camel.

'No, sir, I'm not.' Pevensie's expression gave away nothing. 'I was ready to fly that 'plane. I probably ought to have asked more about its handling, but I landed it safely even though I experienced some engine trouble at take-off and again at eleven hundred feet. Sir.'

Biggles eyed the kid, and sighed. 'For heaven's sake, Pevensie, at ease. You'll break something, standing like you've a poker up your arse.'

Pevensie started, then grinned, and put down the helmet and goggles. 'Sorry, sir.' He undid the top buttons of his flying jacket as well, revealing a rumpled uniform collar underneath.  
Biggles yanked his eyes back up to Pevensie's face as the boy leant against the 'plane, snugged in the angle between fuselage and tail-plane. He looked comfortable. He looked at ease. The spots of burnt oil on his left shoulder even made him look in place against the Camel, like Swayne and Maddison had, years ago, in that affair with the White Fokker.

'What was it like? Back then?' Pevensie asked suddenly. He looked at Biggles frankly, hand slowly caressing the side of the 'plane like it was a cat.

Biggles was silent for a few moments before saying 'It was like any war. We fought, and if we lived we were lucky. They tell me we won.' He shrugged. 'Don't get romantic ideas, kid. When the chips are down, you'll kill another poor sod just like yourself because he's speaking the wrong language or flying the wrong plane.'

'Or wearing the wrong uniform,' said Pevensie quietly, for the first time looking away. 'No, I meant ... the flying. What was it like? They tell me it'll loop, but I hadn't the - the balls.' He grinned. 'To try it, I mean. Especially after it almost stalled.'

Biggles rolled his eyes. 'She's a good kite,' he said, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice, or to keep his eyes from flitting to where Pevensie stroked the thing. 'Tricky, but we felt like there was nothing in the sky to stop us, sometimes. Except our own idiocy,' he added, peering at Pevensie's misty eyes and deciding the boy was a romantic at heart. And obviously needed a lesson. 'C'mere.' Biggles levered himself up and over, gesturing at the engine. The kid scrambled up beside him. His shoulder in the leather flying jacket seemed hotter than it ought to have been, rubbing against Biggles. 'Look. The Camel's got a rotary engine, you know that, at least?' Pevensie nodded, blond hair brushing Biggles' shoulder.

'Means it can turn faster to the right,' he said.

'Right, but it also means this particular 'plane will spin at the drop of a hat.' He pointed back at the tail-plane, twisting against the fuselage and pulling the trainee with him. 'And look at this. The tail-plane's not variable, so you have to be always pushing forward until you get right up under your ceiling. You can't let up concentration for a _minute_ with this girl.'

Oh Christ. Now Pevensie was right up against him. Come on, Biggles, this is pathetic. He's a trainee. You're his CO. Grow up.

Pevensie turned back to the business end of the machine, incidentally rubbing past Biggles in a very tempting manner, eyes sparkling as he pored over her every detail. 'She's beautiful.'

'She's a deathtrap. If you fly her right, she'll only kill the enemy. If you fly her wrong, she'll kill you too. This bird isn't tame, kid.'

Pevensie half-turned and met his eyes again, something unreadable in his expression. Biggles had the sudden thought that maybe Pevensie understood him better than he expected, coupled with the realisation that they were both perched on the trailing edge of the lower wing of the Camel, that his backside was flush with the fuselage, and that the kid was practically in his arms.

The look in Pevensie's eyes altered subtly to indicate that he was aware of this as well, and hardly complaining. They stood like that for what felt like an eternity - Biggles frozen, Pevensie biting his lip, uncertain, until ...

Christ.

Pevensie's lips were soft, a tad windburnt, and tasted like he'd rubbed the back of his hand over them at some point - the distinctive aroma of burnt castor oil toyed with Biggles' senses. Familar scents, unfamiliar textures, tastes ...

Afterwards, Biggles was never certain which of them started the kiss, but he knew that it was Pevensie that jumped down off the wing, pulling Biggles with him, pouring everything he had into the kiss. It was Biggles that pushed the boy up against the fuselage, inserted a leg between both of Pevensie's, and ground up against him, holding tight to banish those memories of other men gone West on him. _This is mad_, he told himself, feeling the kid moan and bury his head in Biggles' neck, and clutch him tighter. It was when he let out a moan of his own that he knew that it was too much madness, and pushed himself back. Pevensie slumped, breathing hard, against the 'plane, and there was reproach in his eyes.

'Sir-'

'Don't.'

'Don't what? You started it.' Pevensie's expression was fierce, and there was a tightness in his trousers that no doubt mirrored Biggles' own, hard and hot and painfully constricted by the uniform.

'I'm a fool,' said Biggles, stepping back once more. 'I'm your commanding officer and this is -'

'What? Unbecoming? Unworthy of an officer and a gentleman?' Pevensie stepped forward. 'I thought we were having an illuminating discussion-'

'-of pilot error, and mishandling,' said Biggles. 'A trainee and a superior officer isn't right, dammit, Pevensie,' he spat, disgusted with himself for even thinking about this.

'You take a good deal of responsibility on yourself, _sir_,' said Pevensie, any trace of respect now gone from his voice. 'I think I ought to be able to decide for myself whether or not I'm consenting. I've disobeyed your orders before, remember? That's why we're here.'

He lunged, grabbing Biggles by the shoulders and pulling them, _slamming_ them back against the fuselage of the plane. Breathless, he fumbled with Biggles' fly. 'Now, are you going to teach me some more about smooth handling?' he asked, and, God, he was grinning again.

Biggles pushed back against the kid, fully aroused now and angry, too. He hadn't wanted to lose the kid, any more than he'd wanted to lose the 'plane, but this? Where'd this come from? He savoured every tiny moan and breath he drew from Pevensie, who was now unashamedly rolling against his thigh, pushing and pulling, creating delicious friction in the Air Force-issue trousers. His hand, curiously calloused, was wrapped around Biggles, and _Christ_ ... the trainee's face was pink and flushed, eyes still open, still staring at Biggles, the low light forcing the dilation of his pupils. He was commanding, was what he was.

The very wrongness of the situation drove Biggles on, perversely. Here he was, wrapped around a trainee pilot who had his hands down Biggles' perfectly ironed uniform trousers, up against a 'plane that was due to be dismantled in a week's time, a 'plane he'd _killed people_ in, trying to stifle his own moans and actively encouraging Pevensie's. He was angry, he was turned on, he was confused ...

He wrenched Pevensie's hands out and thrust his own hand into the other pilot's trousers - and when did he start thinking of Pevensie as a pilot, anyway? - and had time for one long, smooth stroke before the kid's hands, tangled in Biggles' hair, clenched convulsively and his eyes closed, just for a second, and he came hot and wet over Biggles' hand. A few seconds later and friction and pushing and the sight of Pevensie, golden-haired and debauched, breathing hard and fumbling to get his hands on Biggles once more, brought the veteran to the brink, and he lurched over the edge, incongruously glad that they did their own laundry here. Pevensie pulled Biggles up, helped him lean against Pevensie's own body and against the 'plane, feeling the cold metal against his cheek. Some activity around his waistband awoke him to the fact that the kid was doing up both their flies.

'Pevensie-'

'I know,' said Pevensie, with a wry, sad smile. 'It never happened. And now I suppose I pack my kit and join my brother in the distinguished profession of banking, do I?' He bent down and retrieved his helmet and goggles, the set of his back suggesting iron control over whatever emotions he was feeling, and Biggles wondered once again about what the kid'd been through that he could be so tightly wound.

Biggles stood up and took Pevensie by his shoulder, steering him towards the door. 'No. Now, you can spend a week helping the ack-emmas, and after _that_ you can return to your flight.' He hesitated just as they reached the door, and added, 'And if you have any more ... handling enquiries, you can see me in my office.'

Pevensie looked up at him, and grinned.


End file.
